Singled Out

By Simon Brett

TV producer Laura Fisher sets out to have a baby before her 30th birthday. But on the day of her son's birth, she discovers something about her child's father that shocks her to the core. Twenty years later, Laura's past begins to close in on her and she is forced to face up to a legacy of murder.

Simon Brett is the winner of The CWA Diamond Dagger 2014.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781448301294

Simon Brett

Simon Brett worked as a producer in radio and television before taking up writing full time. As well as the much-loved Fethering series, the Mrs Pargeter novels and the Charles Paris detective series, he has written a number of radio and television scripts. Married with three children, he lives in an Agatha Christie-style village on the South Downs. You can find out more about Simon at his website: www.simonbrett.com

Book preview

PART ONE: 1973

One

The man looked suitable for her purposes. He sat at the bar, swirling melting ice in a glass of Scotch. His eyes darted about, undecided, unresolved. His suit, large checks, wide lapels, slight flare to the trousers, was smart, but seemed to say he was from out of town.

He was sensationally good-looking. Firm, spare body. Dark brown hair that lapped over the top of his collar and curled tightly in long sideburns. Blue eyes nestling in surprisingly luxuriant lashes.

Laura sat on the stool beside him. She shook back her dark hair and fixed her hazel eyes on his. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Carole.’

The room, in a hotel near Paddington, had been booked in advance, and Laura had targeted the bar after months of research in central London. The date too had been carefully chosen. Over the previous few months she had spent other evenings in the bar but not seen anyone suitable. The man was the first she had taken back to the hotel.

He said he was called David. Quite possibly he too was using a false name. Laura didn’t care. His name was one of the many things about him that didn’t interest her.

She established that he was from Manchester, in London for a business meeting the following morning. Laura asked no questions about the nature of his business, and he didn’t volunteer it. The man seemed as keen to limit personal information as she was. The details of her life held no interest for him either.

But of course he was interested in fucking her. He was a man, after all.

Laura ordered a bottle of Scotch from Room Service and, when their glasses were charged, took control. She pushed away the low coffee table and sat beside him on the sofa.

‘Cheers.’

The man raised his glass to hers. There was still a wariness in his eyes. He was not fazed by the unexpected turn his evening had taken, but remained on his guard. A long swallow of Scotch, then he asked in his flat Mancunian voice, ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I want you to fuck me,’ Laura said.

He considered his reply for a moment, then half-smiled. ‘Well, I dare say that could be arranged.’ A new thought disturbed him. ‘You’re not expecting me to pay, are you? Because I can assure you when I want sex, I don’t need to –’

She silenced him with a reassuring hand on his knee. ‘I’m not expecting you to pay.’

‘Just a bonus, is it? Why? It’s not my birthday.’

‘Just a bonus.’

For a moment he seemed about to ask more, find out why he had been singled out for this largesse. Laura moved her hand along his thigh and, as she intended, lust dispelled his curiosity.

He leant forward to kiss her. His lips were firm, slightly salty in taste. Laura pressed hers against them, flicking her tongue chameleon-like into his mouth. He pressed closer, a hand reaching to the side of her face. It outlined the angle of her jaw, slid down the neck, landed lightly on her shoulder, feeling the brassiere strap through the Indian cotton of her dress.

Her finger described a wide, slow circle over his thighs and stomach, just avoiding the evident erection. Then her hand moved up to brush against the roughness of his chin. Their lips were still conjoined, her tongue teasing his forward to invade the privacy of her mouth. Laura’s hand loosened his wide flowered tie and slipped between the buttons of the tightly cut shirt. Her fingers tangled lazily with the hairs on his chest, then expertly freed a couple of buttons.

His free hand cupped a breast, squeezed tentatively as if anticipating rebuff. Encouraged when none came, the hand slipped down to caress her buttocks, defining the line of her bikini briefs each time it passed. Though it was chilly October, Laura had decided against wearing tights. They would only have got in the way. The sweeps of his stroking hand grew longer, moving down the smooth muscles of Laura’s thigh, ever nearer the hem of her skirt.

She felt herself moistening. The skin around her nipples tightened and tingled. It was as she had hoped. Though her emotions stayed frigidly detached, her body was responding.

Laura drew away from the kiss and looked up into the beautiful blankness of his eyes. ‘All right?’ she asked.

‘All right,’ he mumbled back. ‘I’ll enjoy fucking you.’

Emboldened, his hand moved swiftly under her dress, homing along the inside of her thigh to the mound between her legs. Laura let out a little moan, part involuntary, part calculated, as a finger found the cleft of her through the thin silk. ‘Shall we go on to the bed?’ she murmured.

The man nodded and slowly rose to his feet, rendered cautious by the erection that strained against his trousers. He looked down at his empty glass.

Laura poured in more Scotch and placed it on the bedside table. She took hold of the bedclothes and, in one fluent movement, pulled back topsheet, blankets and coverlet so that they crumpled down to the floor at the end of the bed. The man stood watching.

‘What turns you on most?’ Laura asked. ‘To undress yourself … have me undress you … what?’

‘You undress me …’ His voice was throaty with desire. ‘Then undress yourself while I watch.’

Laura shrugged and gestured to the bed. The man unzipped shiny brown boots with a slight platform sole, kicked them off, removed his socks and came across to lie on the sheet. He propped himself up on pillows against the headboard.

The man said nothing, but watched closely as Laura removed his tie, undid the remaining buttons of the shirt and slipped it off. Her hands deftly freed the metal clasp of his waistband, then edged his zip undone over the bulge of flesh. She worked the trousers and briefs down his legs. As she slipped them off, Laura ran her hand lightly down the length of his erection. He let out an involuntary sigh.

‘Very satisfactory,’ said Laura. ‘Now I undress …?’

The man nodded.

Laura behaved as if she was relishing the routine she went through, teasing undone the buttons down the front of her dress. Slowly she reached round to unclasp the black brassiere, gradually allowing it to fall away from her tight-nippled breasts.

She slid two fingers inside the waistband of her bikini briefs, let them circle idly for a moment, then slowly worked the thin material downwards. All the time she could feel the man’s heavy-lidded gaze, and it gave her a sense of power.

She stepped out of the briefs and stood facing him. Deliberately she rubbed her right hand over her breasts, snagging against the hardened nipples. Then she let it slide gently over the contour of her stomach to rest against the black bush between her legs. The man groaned. With a will of its own, his right hand moved up to encircle his penis. Laura’s sense of power grew.

‘Let me do that for you,’ she said, moving forward.

She knelt on the bed beside him. He withdrew his hand and watched as hers formed a ring to massage the burning flesh. With each downward stroke she let a finger tickle against the puckered tightness of his scrotum. His breathing seemed to rise from deeper and deeper within his chest. Laura relaxed her fingers, widening their span so that now each stroke only dusted against him.

‘Tighter,’ the man moaned. ‘Tighter.’

‘No.’ Laura spoke firmly, took her hands away and quickly moved her body to arch over him. His penis still raked the empty air as the buttocks clenched and unclenched. Supporting herself on one arm, she used the other hand to distend the opening of her wet vagina and lower herself down on to him. They sighed together as his full length slid into her.

His sighs re-formed into strangled words. ‘Shouldn’t I have a French letter on?’

The detached part of her brain registered the phrase. Where did he come from? How old did a man have to be to use the expression ‘French letter’ in the 1970s? But all she said was, ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’ Which was just as well, because seconds later he came spurting into her.

The man exhaled a huge sigh and lay limp as a glove puppet. Laura stayed astride him, feeling the little twitchings as his penis shrank away inside her. ‘Hope it was good for you too.’ His mumbled words sounded unnatural, a quotation from some worthy tome on interpersonal relationships.

‘It was fine for me,’ Laura murmured. Not of course that she had come. Or even enjoyed it. But then that hadn’t been the aim of the exercise.

Forty minutes later they fucked again. To have described it as ‘making love’ would have been inappropriate. The man seemed to feel no great need to repeat his performance, but after all her planning, Laura was determined. This time she manoeuvred him on top of her. He tried to control himself and extend the action, but she was in charge. A few well-organized twitches of her vaginal muscles and once again he had shot his load inside her.

‘You made me come too quickly,’ he grumbled as he withdrew.

Laura said nothing, but reached for the whisky bottle and recharged his glass. The man drank it down and lay still beside her in feigned sleep. After a few minutes a series of little shudders ran through his body as real sleep took over.

Laura looked at her watch. Half past eleven. She decided to wait and see. If nothing else was forthcoming, she’d get rid of him. Cautiously she moved out of the bed. Fluid trickled stickily down the inside of her legs, but she made no attempt to clean herself up. She picked up her handbag from by the sofa and checked inside. The metal curve of her automatic pistol’s butt reassured her. She hoped she wouldn’t need the gun, but was comforted to know it was there. Placing the handbag on the floor nearby, she lay back down on the bed.

It was about an hour before the man shuddered awake again. For a moment he gazed around blearily, uncertain where he was. With recollection seemed to come revulsion. He swung his legs round to sit on the side of the bed, his back to Laura.

‘Have you got a cigarette?’ he growled.

‘No. I don’t smoke.’

‘Might’ve bloody known it. Pass the whisky.’

As she handed the bottle across, Laura let her hand linger on the man’s shoulder. He made no attempt to remove it, so, while he poured another drink, she let her hand glide down his back, round the curve of the hips towards his penis.

‘What are you – some kind of nymphomaniac?’ he snapped, breaking free.

‘No. I just thought we might do it again.’

‘Well, I don’t want to.’ He sounded as petulant as a schoolboy.

‘All right,’ said Laura coolly. ‘You’d better go.’

‘What?’

‘I said you’d better go.’

‘Listen!’ The man turned sharply towards her. His face, tightened up into an expression of fury, was no longer beautiful. ‘I decide when I want to go – right! You’re just a tart – a bloody whore – and just because I’ve fucked you, it doesn’t give you any rights over me!’

Laura’s voice stayed even and unemotional. ‘I’m not claiming any rights over you. I’m just saying it’s time for you to get dressed and go.’

‘Don’t you order me around!’

His right hand leapt out as if to slap, but Laura was quick enough to move her face away. In spite of his beautiful body, the man looked ridiculous in his nakedness, trying to assert control. Laura hadn’t intended to smile, but she must have done.

With a cry of ‘You cow! Don’t you dare laugh at me!’, he suddenly had his hands round her neck. The pressure was light, but his muscles were rigid, ready to tighten, and the glint in his eye was ugly. Laura offered no resistance, but slipped back on to the bed, her right arm trailing over the side.

‘All the bloody same, you women!’ the man hissed. ‘Either you won’t let us have sex when we want it, or else you bloody force yourselves on us. Cunts, that’s all you are – just bloody cunts!’

She had no alternative. When Laura’s right arm moved up from beside the bed, the gun was held firmly in her hand. The man’s blue eyes blinked in amazement as the end of the barrel was pressed against the middle of his forehead.

‘I said,’ Laura murmured quietly, ‘that it was time for you to get dressed and go.’

He didn’t speak as he released his hold and moved cautiously away from the bed. He scrabbled on the floor for his clothes, and put them on with clumsy speed. All the time he held Laura’s gaze, and all the time she kept the gun trained on him. He didn’t bother to put his tie on. At the door he paused to throw back one final insult, but thought better of it, and shuffled off into the corridor.

Laura crossed swiftly to the door and double-locked it. She never met the man again.

Two

She found herself trembling after he had gone. Not just with relief, but also with shock at how she had behaved. It was exactly what she had intended to do, but that she had been able to do it with such detachment left her dazed and unnerved.

She replaced the covers on the bed and slid herself under them. Suddenly, as the tension drained from her, she felt exhausted. With surprising ease, she slipped into sleep.

The taxi dropped Laura Fisher outside her flat in Bays-water. She gave the driver a fifty-pence coin and told him to keep the change. As she extracted keys from the pocket of her coat, she checked her watch. Just time to change and grab some coffee. She hadn’t had anything at the hotel. Up and showered early, checked out by seven, paying in cash and leaving no sign that she’d ever been there, except for the name in the register. ‘Carole Saunders.’

She was opening the front door when a voice close up behind her said, ‘Good morning, Laura.’

She pulled the door closed and took her key out of the lock before turning to face her husband. ‘Good morning, Michael. Creeping up on me again, are you?’

He was still good-looking, though his jaw had lost the sharp outline it had had when they married in 1967. The single button of his wide-lapelled blazer strained a little over his stomach, and the restless blue eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. His hair was thinning at the front. He no longer looked the Head Boy he had once been, but his voice still retained its public school arrogance.

‘Not creeping up. Just driving past and saw you.’ He gestured to the gleaming white Citroen DS parked opposite.

‘Oh yes?’ said Laura, disbelieving.

‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m never going to risk being alone in a room with you again, Michael.’

They had coffee in the anonymous lounge of a nearby hotel. The other customers were a group of white-robed Arabs and a party of German students.

‘This is bloody stupid, Laura,’ Michael protested. ‘I’m not a monster. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘It’s my flat and I’ll decide who I invite into it, thank you.’

He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘How long are you intending to keep this up?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look, I’m very impressed. You’ve proved you’re capable of setting up on your own. You’ve rented a flat, you’re paying for it out of your own money, you’re independent – full marks. But the fact remains that there’s a much nicer house in Richmond where you should be living.’

‘I don’t see that there’s any should about it.’

‘Laura, I think I’ve been very long-suffering over this. I’ve let you go your own way, do your own thing … I even let you go off and work in New Zealand for six months … but now any point that needed proving has been proved. You should come back. I’m still your husband, and husbands do have certain rights.’

Laura gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Michael, don’t you listen? Haven’t you heard any of the things I’ve been saying over the last few years? Our marriage is over. We are going to get divorced.’

He shook his head with infuriating calm. ‘There’s no reason for us to get divorced. I haven’t got anyone else. You haven’t got anyone else.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know. I keep an eye on what you’re up to, Laura.’

She looked up sharply, but with a smug smile he avoided eye contact. His words had stimulated a suspicion which had been growing for some time, the suspicion that Michael was spying on her. That morning wasn’t the first time he had appeared as if by accident. There had been occasions when Laura felt sure she’d glimpsed him on the street when she was out shopping, or seen a white DS flash by as she arrived at or left her office. She didn’t think that she was getting paranoid.

‘Michael, you must cooperate on this divorce. Admit we made a mistake. We married too young, before we’d found our own personalities.’

‘I’d found mine. And I